


Far From Talk

by daisysusan



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisysusan/pseuds/daisysusan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission, they unwind a bit. Basically just porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far From Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think there are any spoilers in this, but if you think there are, drop me a note and I'll absolutely add a warning!

Steve does missions for SHIELD sometimes, outside of his Avengers work. Not all that frequently, but sometimes Director Fury shows up at his apartment with a folder and, hey, it’s not so bad to break up the monotony, right? 

He rarely sees Barton and Romanoff—Clint and Natasha? Hawkeye and Black Widow? Names are so difficult in this line of work—because he’s not exactly suited to the type of missions they do; he’s too tall (too _distinctive_ ) to be a spy and just not cut out at all to be an assassin. Sometimes he does, though, and this mission was actually a shared one. 

A shared mission isn’t the same thing as a shared—a whatever this is, and Steve’s having trouble sorting out how everything could have ended this way when he’s distracted by the way Natasha is kissing Clint. 

Maybe he should just—just grab his sweater, which Natasha had unbuttoned and Clint had thrown across the room a few minutes ago, and his jacket and leave them to it; they’re clearly perfectly happy to, well, take care of themselves.

Have sex.

If he’s going to be lying on the bed half-naked and _watching_ have the sex, he ought to at least call it what it is. 

Just when he’s about to roll over and make for the door, there’s a hand that traces lightly down the side of his face. He can’t tell whose it is—the touch is too soft for him to distinguish between Natasha’s toughened skin and Clint’s calluses—but then Natasha is pulling him up off the bed and bit and kissing him, gentle at first. That means Clint is watching them, Steve reasons, a while into the kiss, but then he feels lips against the back of his neck and there’s no way Natasha can be—which means—okay. 

He’s thought about this before—well not this specifically, because until they were sitting in that bar after their mission and Natasha started looking him over appraisingly, have a threesome with her and Clint had never even occurred to him, but he’s thought about sex a lot before. Everyone does, he knows, but—still. 

Arms—Clint’s arms, strong, bulkier than Natasha’s—are reaching around him, hands making for the button of his pants. All of a sudden, everything seems more serious—more _imminent_. 

Breaking away from the kiss, he hisses “Natasha.” Or at least he tries to hiss it; it comes out sounding a lot more like a gasp because Clint does something to the curve of Steve’s neck with his tongue and teeth that should not feel nearly that good. “Seriously, Natasha—”

At least he’s gotten her attention, she cocks her head at him and he smiles a little sheepishly. “I, um,” he begins, feeling himself blush for the first time since they started doing this. “I just—”

Clint’s lips remove themselves from the back of his neck, but his hands are resting softly against Steve’s hips and he leans forward a little to hum in Steve’s ear. 

“I’ve just never exactly done this before,” Steve says, a little too quickly. 

Behind him, he feels Clint stiffen a little, and Natasha’s head cocks a little bit further. She opens her mouth, but Steve cuts her off. “Don’t make a big deal about it or anything, I just wanted you to know.”

Natasha kisses him again. Steve relaxes into it—this part is familiar—and kisses her back, forcing away any thoughts of Peggy. (It’s like his mother used to tell him, when he was too little to understand—there’s no use being upset about things that you can’t change. Of course, if you can change it, that’s a different story entirely.) 

The sound of a zipper pulls him from his thoughts, and he can’t say he’s sorry to leave them when he realizes it’s Natasha unzipping her suit. Under it is just skin, more than he’s ever seen before of hers, but the fingers tracing down her chest aren’t his, they’re Clint’s. 

Steve hadn’t even noticed him moving around to the side. There are too many things to try and notice, too many bodies and arms and mouths. It’s overwhelming enough just to watch as Natasha strips herself, revealing mostly smooth skin—it’s not perfect, though, marred with the scars of a lifetime of spy work and assassinations and things Steve doesn’t even want to think about. Clint’s will match once he takes off his uniform; Steve’s seen the marks on his arms. He’s not without scars himself, most of them from before the serum but a few from after (he doesn’t scar easily, not anymore, and it’s still strange to him). 

There are more important things to think about, he knows, and twists his head towards Clint to kiss him. It’s indescribably different than kissing Natasha—different taste, different angle, different skin under his, sure, but also something he can’t quite name. Clint’s fingers are working at his clothes, not his usual ones this time but at least familiar. (He was in civvies, had been the visible face of the operation while Natasha and Clint skulked in the shadows.)

It’s difficult to get it together enough that he can actually participate, maybe take some initiative, but when Clint runs his tongue behind Steve’s teeth and Steve reaches to pull him closer, it’s a reminder that one of them is still fully clothed and maybe they should all be naked at this point. He doesn’t know what Natasha’s doing (maybe she’s just watching, it’s what he would do) but Clint hasn’t stopped kissing him yet and Steve’s busily trying to undo any part of his clothes he can reach—it’s not going well because the uniform is complicated and he’s got no idea how to make it work, but at least he’s trying. 

Smaller hands move alongside his, and he realizes that Natasha is undoing Clint’s clothes, that she knows what she’s doing. It hits him like a ton of bricks—a ton of bricks that should have hit him about three hours ago—they’ve done this before, maybe they even do this regularly. They want him here, with them, for reasons Steve can’t even pretend to understand. 

It is what it is, and he’s certainly enjoying it. 

(That feels like advice Stark—Tony—would give him.)

Regardless, Steve opens his eyes and pulls away from Clint. He wants to see what’s happening, be able to follow it and keep track and remember it later. 

Natasha is carefully, expertly peeling Clint’s top off. He’s scarred underneath it, not too badly but enough to be noticeable; Steve knew he would be. They move with the practiced efficiency of two people whose job it is to move that way, with an added level of comfort around each other. It’s hypnotic. 

He wants to be watching their hands—Natasha’s have moved on to undoing Clint’s pants, while his are tracing shapes across her collarbone and breasts—and their faces—they’re kissing again—and all the other parts of them, Natasha’s curving hips with her suit just barely clinging to them and Clint’s muscular shoulders and a thousand other things he can’t even see, much less comprehend. Before he even thinks the motion through, he’s reaching out and pulling the suit the rest of the way down, exposing the rest of her back and legs.

Lightly, Steve trails his fingers up the backs of Natasha’s thighs, letting his hands rest against her waist when they get to it. He’s right behind her—so close he feels, or imagines he can feel, the heat of her skin—and the space closes when she rolls her hips back into his. The unexpected sensation makes the world go a little fuzzy at the edges for a moment, and then he’s pressing his hips forward, mimicking her motion. 

She makes a small, contented noise in the back of her throat and Steve feels a rush of pride. 

He hears the noise again and is briefly confused—he hasn’t done anything—until he looks down and sees Clint’s hand buried between Natasha’s thighs. She’s trembling a little, her hips jerking forward and back. Clint is pressing kissing across her shoulders and neck, but her head is tipping back onto Steve’s shoulder. 

Paying careful attention to the motion of Clint’s fingers, Steve pushes forward against Natasha’s hips just as Clint presses harder against her as well, and she lets out a soft gasp. Clint looks up from her neck and meets Steve’s eyes. “Again?” he mouths, and Steve nods. 

He thinks Clint’s fingers might be inside her, it’s hard to tell, but either way, it’s not much later that she’s shaking between them before she goes rigid with a gasp. When her eyes open again, her pupils are blown and they’re less focused than Steve is used to seeing. She’s breathing heavily. With her head flopped back onto Steve’s shoulder again, it’s a little hard to hear when she whispers, “Do you want to …?”

For a split second, he wonders what she’s asking, but then it clicks and he nods, more tentative than he wants to be. It’s a bit of a relief when she takes the initiative, opening the condom that Clint has pressed into her hand—when did that happen?—and rolling it onto him expertly.

“Lie down,” she whispers into his ear, and Steve—who admittedly would probably eat his own foot if Natasha told him to while she was doing that with her hand—does exactly that. Then she’s straddling his hips and grabbing him and— _oh_. 

Everything goes blank for a moment, and Steve hears himself make a slightly strangled noise. Clint, he realizes, is kneeling over his legs as well, right behind Natasha, and has his hand between her legs again. That all seems incredibly trivial, though, the moment that she starts shifting her hips up and down just the slightest bit. 

The weight of the two of them on his legs is enough to keep him from doing anything too crazy like slamming his hips up into Natasha as hard as he can, but it’s taking some effort even then. She keeps moving, slowing up gradually, and Steve grabs her hips and just tries not to make a fool of himself. He can feel Clint’s fingers against both of them as they move together, and Natasha all around him, and the sensations are more than a little overwhelming. 

Steve can feel his body starting to go tense and the world going blurry. When Natasha leans forward to kiss him again and Clint does something with his fingers that Steve doesn’t understand and couldn’t recreate if he had the rest of his life to figure it out, it’s over. He gasps into Natasha’s mouth and arches up into her as best he can. 

Before she climbs off him, she whispers one last thing to him. “Enjoy the rest of the show, Steve.”

And then she’s off him, spinning around and tugging Clint into a rough kiss. Steve, distractedly, manages to grab the condom and dispose of it while barely taking his eyes off them. Natasha falls onto her back next to him and then Clint is inside her and they’re rocking together, hands playing across each other’s bodies with familiarity and an entirely unsurprising lack of mercy. 

In a blur of motion—Steve can’t tell whether she just moves that quickly or his senses are slowed—Natasha flips them over and she’s straddling Clint. Their rhythm barely falters.

It’s striking how silent they both are—Steve knows he was making noises earlier, despite all his efforts to the contrary, gasps and choked off moans and God only knows what else—but Clint and Natasha are almost noiseless. They’re both so used to disappearing, being unseen and unheard, that it carries over into their sex life. 

There’s a moment, when Clint does something, where Natasha hisses, but until they’re both moving jerkily and gasping every so quietly, that’s the only sound. The jerky movements continue, though, until Natasha’s back arches and her face goes beautifully slack; Clint’s follows seconds later. 

Steve just stares at them, completely enthralled, as Natasha crawls off Clint and collapses on the bed between them. She kisses him quickly, and then Clint slightly longer, and Steve is fading into sleep, too dazed and sated and comfortable to stay awake any longer. He’s only vaguely aware of Natasha and Clint shifting next to him. 

The last thing he remembers is Natasha dragged his arm across her hips.


End file.
